


Post-Its

by dapperyklutz



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, John is a total BAMF, John saves Sherlock as always, M/M, Molly Hooper is fucking incredible, Mrs. Hudson knows what's up, Sherlock happens to be a sentimalist, Sherlock is oblivious as always, Slow Build, post-its
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2632493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapperyklutz/pseuds/dapperyklutz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I posted this story in my FFN account a few years back, and I recently decided to post it here as well. So, yeah. Enjoy reading! :)

John - simple, comfortable, nothing but ordinary John - deemed it best to leave post-it notes in the flat with every opportunity he gets without his friend noticing. It started with a simple, "Sherlock, there's breakfast on the table in case you're hungry. Don't blow up the flat, please. John" and progressed gradually to, "Good morning. Just heat the kettle, I already prepared tea (used the tea leaves this time, it's your favourite kind). See you later. John".

The ex-army doctor would leave it in random places, like the mirror in the living room above the fireplace - or on the beakers where he's sure that Sherlock's using it for an experiment he's working on. He soon started posting it on Sherlock's bedroom door; sometimes on the detective's purple mug, or when he's in a jovial mood he posts it across the skull. But one thing John reminds himself is to never put emoticons, or smileys. He knows that Sherlock detested those, so he made sure that he didn't get carried away.

For the most part, Sherlock acts the same every time he comes home from the clinic. Nothing's changed, that's for sure - and John doesn't know whether to be okay or not. Though, he makes sure that every time he leaves the flat in the morning, he never misses to leave a post-it note. When he ran out of the yellow ones, he replaced it with a stack of multi-colored ones - the ones that came from different shapes. Rectangle, circle, square, triangle, and his personal favourite - a skull-like shaped post-it. He found it the same time he bought a new stock, and he immediately retrieved at least three bundles. But he made sure to only use it once or twice a week.

On the fourth month that John has been doing what he's doing, he decided to take it up a notch. He's noticed in the past week that his best friend has been in a foul mood due to being bored since they don't have a new case; and he didn't like it in the least bit. So when he announced out of nowhere that he'll be showering, an idea popped into his head.

"Right, I'm off to shower," John announced out of the blue, folding the newspaper he was reading for the past hour as he stood up and stretched.

Sherlock looked up from his position on the couch, lying on his back and his hands poised in his thinking stance. He raised an eyebrow at the doctor at his sudden outburst.

"Don't finish the hot water, I'll take a shower after you," he had said before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Probably back to his mind palace, John wondered.

John just nodded his head as he went to get his towel from his room, and going back down to the bathroom he and Sherlock shared. But he made sure to place the white skull-shaped post-it and a black inked pen inside his trouser pocket before trudging back down the stairs. He showered for fifteen minutes, making sure to leave some hot water for his friend to consume. When he was finished drying himself and tying the towel around his waist, John took out the post-it and pen from his dirty laundry and settled to write a simple message for his moody friend before taking it out and posting it across the mirror that became misty over the steam of the hot water. Satisfied, he nodded his head and smiled boyishly before slipping the materials back inside his trousers pocket, and exiting the bathroom - making sure to bring the dirty laundry with him this time.

"Sherlock, it's your turn," he announced as he ran a hand through his wet blonde-grey hair, making it stick up in different angles.

Sherlock opened his eyes and swung his legs over the couch, standing up and turning to walk towards the bathroom when he suddenly halted in his steps - eyes raking over the shorter man's lean and muscular (and very wet, might he add) body. He felt his throat go dry as he glanced to look at John's eyes - slightly wide and face flushed pink - before coughing awkwardly and murmuring a quiet "Thanks", walking quite fast towards the bathroom to shower.

John, slightly dazed but feeling warm inside, shook his head and smiled once more - slightly looking forward to see his friend's reaction upon seeing the message he wrote on the post-it. With that thought, he went up the stairs to his room to change into more comfortable and warmer clothes.

Meanwhile, Sherlock entered the bathroom and locked the door before stripping off of his two-day old pajamas. He went and turned on the shower, checking that yes, John had saved some hot water for him to consume, and then gracefully moved to the sink to brush his teeth first. Before he could squeeze the toothpaste to his toothbrush, he noticed something quite odd. He looked up at the mirror, and was taken a bit off-guard to see his nose obscured by a white skull-shaped post-it note. He slowly placed down his toothbrush and toothpaste to remove the post-it from the mirror. And upon reading the message encoded by his best friend, he couldn't help the wide smile that crossed his features the first time in a week - or that familiar warm feeling to spread across his chest. The same warm feeling that he'd been experiencing for the past four months since his flatmate started to leave post-it notes every time he left the flat. He read it again, and then again, and then again - until he lost count of how many times he read John's simple but meaningful message.

**"Just this once, for you - let's play Cluedo. :) John"**

As a matter of fact, Sherlock didn't mind John's usage of a smiley after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

The next day, John went down the stairs in his pajama bottoms and a white v-neck shirt, only to find the living room empty. He scratched his head as he yawned, wondering all the while where Sherlock could've gone. He proceeded to the kitchen to turn on the kettle when he noticed an orange rectangle-shaped post-it attached to it. Slightly confused but definitely curious, he removed the post-it and was very surprised to find the kettle still hot - he felt the heat radiate his skin upon removing the piece of paper. Furrowing his eyebrows, he looked down at the spidery handwriting of his friend - only to feel his face soften once he read the message.

**Went to St. Bart's. Boiled some hot water for you. Be back in the afternoon. SH**

He felt his chest go warm, and the doctor couldn't help the wide grin that escaped his handsome features. He then kept the post-it inside his pajama pocket, and moved about to prepare his tea. When he turned to sit down on the kitchen stool, he was once again rendered surprised to find toast and the morning paper on top of the kitchen table. Actually, he surveyed his surroundings and noticed that Sherlock moved some of his chemistry equipment out of the way to give some space. Feeling himself blush at his friend's odd but much-appreciated display of humanity, John sat down on the stool, setting his blue mug down.

He opened the morning paper, and as he reached out for the toast, he felt instead of heard the rustle of paper underneath it. Intrigued this time, he looked down and couldn't help the laugh that erupted out of his chest as he saw another post-it note attached underneath the warm bread. He removed the pink circle-shaped post-it as he once again read the short message his eccentric flatmate wrote.

**Bread's expired for a day, but I toasted it enough to kill the bacteria. SH**

Closing his eyes and shaking his head in amusement, John kept the second note inside his pocket before he took a small bite. Chewing it slowly, he found that his flatmate made sure it was toasted well, but not exactly burnt. Thank God for that, he thought. Finishing the rest of his breakfast and folding the newspaper, John placed the dishes in the sink and washed it. Then he went upstairs to his room to grab his towel before going back down to take a shower.

Last night's game of Cluedo was intense. He and Sherlock played for hours and, to the doctor's amusement, he found himself enjoying it. They played several rounds, and each round Sherlock beat him gleefully. When they were on their eight round, John managed to beat him by luck, which resulted to Sherlock beating him mercilessly for the next five rounds.

Chuckling fondly at the memory, John entered the bathroom and quickly stripped naked. He had work at ten o'clock today, and since it was only half past eight, he decided to take his time with his showering. He turned on the shower, and while waiting for the water to become hot, he moved to the sink to brush his teeth.

But before he could grab his toothbrush from the holder, he looked up and was then taken aback to find another post-it attached to the mirror. But this time, it was the skull-shaped post-it note. He reached out to detach the white piece of paper, and as he looked down to read the inscription written, John felt his heart skip a beat as a loving smile caressed his features.

**Thank you for last night. I had fun. Have a good day. SH**

And let's just say that John Watson's Friday morning has been made.

At St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock was currently doing an experiment involving pig's blood. He has been there since morning, and now that it's well past lunchtime, he could feel his stomach churn in hunger. Unable to concentrate on his work, he moved away from the microscope in agitation, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his face with his hands to clear away the dizziness he suddenly felt. The last time he remembered eating a decent meal was four days ago, and he knew his flatmate wouldn't like it in the least bit.

Smirking at the thought of John, the detective wondered what his friend's reaction was to the post-its he left. He could care less for the breakfast he prepared for him, but it's John we're talking about and he knew that the doctor would appreciate it nonetheless. After all, it is the thought that counts. Sighing in frustration when his stomach growled in protest again, he looked down and sneered.

"Shut up," he muttered darkly.

He reached for his coat pocket to send Molly a text to bring him coffee (black, two sugars), when he felt a piece of paper before he retrieved his phone. Furrowing his eyebrows, he took it out and was surprised to find himself surprised at the yellow square-shaped post-it note attached to the screen of his iPhone 4S. Removing it, he read the message his best friend wrote down and couldn't help the wide smile that escaped his succulent cupid-bow lips.

**I don't know when and where you'll read this, but please eat, Sherlock. It's been days. John**

Shaking his head, he distinctly heard the door open and turned around to find Molly carrying a black mug. Ah, his coffee, then. Looks like Molly has read his mind - but that is highly impossible. Nobody could read his mind. Well, maybe except John.

"Ah, Molly, thank you," Sherlock said, smiling wanly at the petite woman.

Molly blushed but smiled nonetheless. She placed down the mug at the table where it was safe from harm, and said, "You're welcome."

"What's that?" She added as an afterthought, finally spotting the post-it note in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock looked down and quickly hid the note in the breast pocket of his purple shirt before taking a sip of his coffee (not perfectly made compared to John's, he thought).

"Just a note," he said idly, turning his back on Molly as he went back to his experiment.

He failed to see the small frown that escaped Molly's pretty face before she masked it with her usual cheerful persona.

"Oh, okay," she said in her small voice. Then, gathering all the courage she could muster, added, "You should tell him, you know."

At this, Sherlock snapped his head up from the microscope, regarding Molly with a calculating look.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said airily. But he heard her the first time, and couldn't help the sudden skip of his heart beat at what she said.

Molly swallowed and repeated in a stronger voice, looking at Sherlock in the eyes to let him know that she's sincere in what she was going to say.

"I said that you should tell him," she repeated.

"Tell who what?" the consulting detective asked, pretending to sound dumb.

Frowning, Molly shuffled her feet.

"Please don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you," she said in a half-pleading, half-stern voice.

Shell-shocked at this sudden display of bluntness, Sherlock felt his mouth open a bit.

"I-" he began but was immediately cut off.

"John, Sherlock," Molly uttered, more resolutely this time. "Tell him you care about him before it's too late."

"Too late for what, exactly?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed. This is wrong - shouldn't it be her asking the dull questions, and not him? "Molly, what are you talking about?"

Blushing, Molly took a step back before replying, "It's a woman's intuition. I notice the way you look at John when you think no one is looking. And it's alright to care, Sherlock. It's not a disadvantage, it's an opportunity. For you, anyway."

She was silent for a while, Sherlock still looking at her with that calculating and half-exasperated look. "All I'm saying is that... it's totally alright to feel. To care. Because... because you have to know, Sherlock; you have to know that John would sacrifice everything for you. Even if it's his happiness he's sacrificing. Because, well, he cares about you. More than you'll ever know."

And with that said, Molly Hooper exhaled in relief - as if a huge weight was lifted off her shoulders - and then quickly left the laboratory to leave Sherlock to his own thoughts.

What the bloody hell brought that on? he asked himself.

But little did he know of what was to happen in the next couple of days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

Oddly enough, for the next couple of days it became somewhat of a habit for them to stick post-it notes in random places with short, silly, or meaningful messages.

**On a case. Please buy milk, I used it for an experiment this morning. SH**

**Will arrive home late, I'm taking a double shift. Dinner is in the fridge. John**

**Mrs. Hudson stole my skull again. Let's play Cluedo. SH**

**Sherlock, buy your own aftershave. It's bad enough that people are talking. John**

**John, I'm too lazy to buy my own - besides, yours is a good substitute. And let them, people do little else. SH**

Two weeks into their exchange of post-it notes, it progressed into something more affectionate, but still seeming to appear platonic all the same. The first, of course, to start it, was John.

**The hot water's for you to consume. Eat breakfast. John**

**Don't bother to buy milk when you go home from the clinic, I'll stop by Tesco on the way from Scotland Yard. Sherlock**

**Sherlock, thanks for heating the kettle and making me toast again. I appreciate it. John**

**John, thank you for covering me with a blanket this morning when I was asleep on the couch. Sherlock**

**You're an idiot for taking a bullet for me last night. Guess we're even now. Thank you. John**

**Only an idiot when I'm with you. Sherlock**

**PS**

**Always.**

On the fourth week of John and Sherlock's habit of exchanging post-it notes, John woke up on a warm Saturday morning to a neon green triangle-shaped note attached to his alarm clock. Sitting up in bed, he retrieved the post-it and read what was written - a warm smile slowly spreading across his face.

**Good morning, John. Tea is ready when you go down. Sherlock**

Indeed, it was. After changing into a pair of dark-washed jeans and his black and white striped jumper, he went down to the living room to see his flatmate lying flat on his back on the couch - dressed to kill, yet poised in his thinking stance with eyes closed. He greeted him good morning but didn't expect Sherlock to reply at all. Upon reaching the kitchen, he saw his blue mug filled with hot peppermint tea, and yet, another note attached to it. But it was a red square-shaped post-it used this time.

**Whatever you're wearing, you look good in it. Sherlock**

Grinning, John chuckled and kept the note in his pocket, sipping his tea as he moved to the pantry to take out the still not expired bread and toasting it on the toaster. After breakfast, he washed the dishes and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Upon entering it, though, he was caught completely surprised. He knew he shouldn't be, but he was, nonetheless. There, on the mirror, were five white skull-shaped post-it notes attached. Furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity, John closed the door and moved towards the sink to read it all.

The first one was:

**I like that you make time to do these silly but meaningful notes with and for me.**

**I like that non-verbal communication has brought us closer in the past four weeks.**

**I like that this has become our 'thing'.**

John's heart skipped at this note, as he felt himself grin widely.

**I like that in the past five months, I have started to look forward to every morning because of you.**

And as John read the last note, he couldn't help but gasp and for his heart to beat a little bit faster.

It was silent in the bathroom, Sherlock mused. It has been for ten minutes now, and he was starting to get nervous. He opened his eyes and swung his legs off the couch, only to be greeted by the door of the bathroom opening and then closing. He looked up to see John, face slightly flushed and an odd glint in his warm brown eyes (which sent shivers down his spine, might he add), looking at him with a soft smile.

"Sherlock," the shorter of the two began, but then stopped as he couldn't think of anything to say next.

Unconsciously biting his lower lip, Sherlock rose slowly from the couch as he felt heat creep up his neck and then to this face. Damn it, he thought, can't control my body from reacting like this.

But before either men can speak another word, the door to 221B opened with a loud bang and someone came up the stairs as if in a hurry. Upon entering the living room, panting, DI Lestrade regarded both Sherlock and John with a curious look.

"Entering with a loud bang as always, Lestrade," commented Sherlock dryly as he forced himself to look away from John's mesmerizing eyes to fix on the DI's duller ones. "Do come in, would you like some tea?" He added sarcastically, making John roll his eyes in half-exasperation and half-amusement.

Huffing out a breath, Lestrade looked apologetic for a while before opening his mouth to speak.

"I have a case," he said, still breathing heavily. "Brian Grint, manager, found dead in his office in Barclays. No traces of evidence at all except for the several bullets found in his chest - three of which were aimed at his heart. Not even the surveillance cameras can give us a head start. We're thinking it's an assassination, instead."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock moved to his armchair to grab his coat and scarf, John doing the same after a second - grabbing his light brown coat from the hook near the door.

"Not an assassination," remarked Sherlock confidently and in his don't-be-an-idiot voice. "Have your team gather the entire list of the security personnel in the building, and I want a complete footage of everything that's happened two hours before, during, and after the victim's death. It's an inside job, that one."

"But why would a security personnel kill the manager of Barclays?" asked John as the three descended the stairs.

"Maybe he was fired," suggested Lestrade as they piled in his car, Sherlock and John taking the back seat for a change and making the salt and pepper-haired detective raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"It's a she," remarked Sherlock, sounding bored already. John looked at him, then.

"How can you be sure it's a 'she'?" he inquired, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" the Consulting Detective replied instead.

"Not obvious to the lesser minds, Sherlock," bit back John jokingly, a small smirk dancing in his lips.

Sherlock looked at the doctor to his left, his own smirk growing by the second. Lestrade glanced at them from the rear-view mirror and rolled his eyes as if in exasperation.

"You're not of the lesser minds, John," he said in what can only be considered as half-affectionate, half-stern. "Just Lestrade."

"Oi!" complained the DI from the driver's seat.

The detective and his blogger laughed at this, making Lestrade crack a smile in return, but he made sure they didn't see it.

"But yes, how can you be sure that it's a 'she'?" asked Lestrade this time.

Sighing as if feeling bad for the entire human race, Sherlock elaborated further.

"A single bullet would mean the killer only wanted vengeance. But several bullets - and three right through the heart? There's pain, there's emotion placed in that action. The killer wanted to make sure the victim - Grint - felt every ounce of pain she felt which he inflicted on her. Now, why would that be? Could she be a lover, or a mistress? Neither, obviously. Because Grint happens to be a happily married man with two children who are studying law and theatre arts in Cambridge, his wife being the stage manager in West End's production of Wicked. What kind of pain he inflicted on her, you ask? Grint rejected her advances on him, which led to her losing her job, for sure. Thus, the killer wanted vengeance for two reasons: she was rejected, and she got fired. Dull, really."

"How could you possibly know about Grint's marriage and... well, that?" asked John, completely amazed and shocked at Sherlock's deduction skills, even after all this time.

Smirking smugly, Sherlock looked at John and then said, "It was in an article I read in the newspaper three days ago. Do keep up, John."

Blushing slightly, John glared half-heartedly at his best friend as Lestrade shook his head in amusement at the two from the driver's seat.

I may just have to visit the dentist soon, the DI thought to himself as he sniggered inwardly. They're too sickeningly sweet in their own, odd way.

"Shut up, Lestrade," said Sherlock suddenly, making Lestrade look at the sociopathic (Whatever he says, the DI thought) detective behind him.

"I didn't even say anything!" he exclaimed.

"You were thinking it and it's annoying."

Rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time that day, Lestrade completely shut up and focused on his driving for the moment as his two companions chuckled at the back. As to why, he'll never know, and he'll never want to in that matter.

Thirty minutes later, they were nearing the bank. With Sherlock busy with his texting and Lestrade with his driving, John inconspicuously took out one of the five white skull-shaped post its from his jeans pocket as he read for the twelfth time that morning the last note Sherlock wrote in the bathroom. And every time he read it, the familiar warm feeling spread through his chest -a feeling he has associated with from the very day he met the consulting detective.

**And I like that despite what the world thinks of me, you care about me. And I like that I care about you, too.**

And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock may feel the same way John does about him. But unbeknownst to John, he didn't notice Sherlock looking at him from the corner of his eye, successfully concealing the wide grin that wanted to escape his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

"John, dear, come over for tea, will you?" called out Mrs. Hudson from her place in the living room.

John was just about to go out for some fresh air when he heard the landlady's voice. He sighed before closing the front door again and retracing his steps to enter Mrs. Hudson's humble abode. Three days had passed since the case of Grint's death, and now Sherlock has left him in favour of conducting a very important experiment in St. Bart's. And he didn't mind, really, for the consulting detective to leave without him. He knew that Sherlock will just text him, and he was all fine with that. Besides, he said so in the note he spotted on top of his laptop that morning.

**Experiment at St. Bart's. I'll be home by 4. Thai tonight? Sherlock**

And now that it's a quarter past three, the ex-army doctor wouldn't mind spending some time with Mrs. Hudson before his childish best friend arrived home. He even smiled inwardly at the thought of Sherlock reading the post-it notes he left for him to read later.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted the old lady with a kiss on the cheek as he sat on the squishy armchair adjacent to the couch the latter is currently occupying.

Everything was silent in a peaceful way as Mrs. Hudson prepared their tea and offered a cup to the doctor with a motherly smile on her face. John accepted it with a word of thanks as the two fell into an easy flow of conversation. They discussed the daytime talk shows they watch on the telly, from Mrs. Hudson's stories about the neighbours ("Mrs. Turner said the married ones are expecting a child," she had said) to John's boring work in the clinic and his adventures with Sherlock when on their cases.

"You're not having another domestic, are you?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.

Slightly perplexed, John put down his cup on the coffee table as he inquired, "No, of course not. What makes you say that, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady sighed in relief as she patted John's arm in reassurance as she said, "Oh, nothing to worry, dear. It's just been too quiet the past couple of weeks. No violin playing at the early hours of the morning, nor the sounds of gunshots and blasts from experiments, and even Sherlock doesn't complain about his boredom when he's not on a case. It's a bit strange, don't you think?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, John couldn't help the slight twitch of his lips as he attempted not to smile.

"So you're saying that the reason you assumed Sherlock and I are fighting is because it's too peaceful?" he asked instead.

Flushing slightly, Mrs. Hudson tutted and then said, "One can never be too sure, John. Sometimes, silence can be the loudest noise you'll hear. Deafening and eerie, yes, but I have to admit that I miss the ruckus you boys make sometimes. And only sometimes - just because it makes it feel a little bit more like home." She added with a warm smile as an afterthought.

Letting a grin escape this time, John chuckled as he patted Mrs. Hudson's arm affectionately, shaking his head at their mischievous but caring landlady.

"You never know, Mrs. H," he said jokingly.

His mind then drifted to Sherlock's post-it notes, which was starting to become less platonic and moreÖ something else. It's not that he didn't like it, it's just that John isn't completely sure of what's going on between them now. He cares about him more than he's ever cared for another person, yes, and he regards him as his best friend. But he's not sure ifÖ

And it's not like they haven't talked about it, either. What goes on in their non-verbal communication stays that way. They don't voice it out, nor act on it. And John knows that he and Sherlock have been tip-toeing around each other for weeks (months, even) now - that someday, somehow, either of them would have to speak up of what's growing between them. If they should act on it or ignore it - welcome the change that is begging to happen or reject it without a glance back. He admits that he's scared to take a risk, to try to voice out his innermost thoughts. Instead, he writes it on post-it notes and rephrases everything he really wants to say. What he's been writing to Sherlock is just the surface of everything he is thinking and feeling, after all.

The subtle touches, the shy glances, the secretive smiles, and that warm and welcoming feeling that spreads through his chest every time he thinks, sees, hears, feels, and smells Sherlock. It feels comfortable, safe... right.

But before he could delve further into his thoughts, he felt rather than heard Mrs. Hudson calling his name - her hand rested on his shoulder as she shook him from his trance.

"John, dear, are you alright?" the landlady asked worriedly as she noticed the doctor's flushed and dazed face.

John shook his head to clear out his thoughts as he replied, "Uh, yes, I am. What's wrong?" He added when he saw her worried stare.

"Your phone keeps on ringing, dear," Mrs. Hudson stated.

John looked down at his jeans pocket and retrieved his phone. He unlocked it and saw two text messages from Sherlock.

**I need your assistance. Come at once. - SH**

**Battersea Power Station, east wing on the fourth floor. - SH**

Feeling his insides grow cold at the last text, John muttered out a quick apology and goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he left the room and immediately ascended the stairs to his room to grab his Browning before dashing back downstairs, and towards the front door. He was about to hail a cab when his phone rang, signalling another text from his flatmate.

**Hurry**

No period. No "SH" at the end. That's a bit not good in John's book. He immediately typed out a reply ( **I'm coming. Hold on. - JW** ) before he successfully hailed a cab the first time. He barked out the address to the cabbie, who looked slightly panic-stricken when he saw John's determined face, and immediately set a foot hard on the gas.

\-----

It was several hours later when both Sherlock and John entered the threshold of 221B Baker Street. The night was warm and the moon was full this time around, but the air between the two grown men were as cold as ice. One word uttered by either could break the thin wall, so both decided to keep their mouths shut for the time being.

John went up the stairs first, not caring in the least bit if he woke up Mrs. Hudson due to the heavy stomping of his feet against the hard wood floors. He removed his coat aggressively and threw it carelessly on his armchair, quickly moving towards the kitchen to boil water in the kettle. And all the while, his face was set and unreadable.

Sherlock, on the other hand, went up the stairs as quietly as he can, unsure of how to react to the doctor's actions. He knew what he did was reckless and stupid, but he would never say that he regretted it. Upon entering the living room, he took off his coat and scarf, mindful of the bandage wrapped around his torso. He then quietly unbuttoned his purple shirt, which happened to be unfortunately caked in dirt and dried blood (as well as his well-tailored pants), and threw it on the couch before walking slowly towards John who had his back turned on the detective - hands planted on the counter as he breathed in and out with eyes closed, posture rigid and stiff.

The ex-army doctor will never forget the sight he saw when he entered one of the abandoned offices at the east wing of Battersea Power Station. The consulting detective was lying on his stomach, entire body covered in dirt, footprints, and to his horror - blood. He immediately checked to see if the coast was clear, and when it was, he dashed towards his fallen best friend. When he turned him on his back, the sight just made him want to throw up and sob at the same time.

Sherlock's face was covered with cuts and bruises - one black-eye and a busted lip. He checked to see if he had broken any ribs, and was mortified to find out that the taller man did - three ribs, in fact. After checking for other injuries (broken wrist, bruised back, swollen knee, and a minor head concussion), John carefully wrapped an arm around Sherlock as he lifted him up from the dirty ground before sending a quick text to Lestrade. But before they could take another step, the detective and his blogger were cornered by the same thugs that beat up Sherlock.

It was a brutal fight John will never forget. Four against one (maybe one and a half, if you consider the injured Sherlock), and fighting them to the best of his abilities whilst protecting Sherlock from harm's way seemed to be an incredibly hard task. He had refrained from using his Browning, but when one of the burly men took out his hunter knife and tried to stab Sherlock - which resulted to an ugly cut on the latter's arm - John completely lost it. With the speed of a lightweight and the agility of an experienced soldier, he knocked out his first opponent with a single touch at the pressure point in his neck.

Then, he turned his back and kicked one of the less burly men on the knee, completely fracturing it before swinging his arm at the afro-haired man to his right, and aiming a swift and painful punch that hit his mouth and nose. He then took out the gun from the waistband of his dark-washed jeans and shot the thug right in the head - mere moments before he could stab Sherlock in the heart.

And right on time, Lestrade and his team arrived at the scene. Later on, the DI confessed to him that he got "scared like shit" when he heard the gunshot, and thought that either of them got shot. Or worse - killed.

Sherlock was then brought up in a gurney, which irritated him as he complained loudly. But one look from his flatmate and he immediately fell silent - grudgingly acquiescing to being taken away against his own will. John, who received less injuries (bruised knuckles, busted lip, bleeding eyebrow) went with Sherlock in the ambulance, instead of staying at the crime scene. He inwardly grinned smugly at Donovan's and Anderson's expressions when they saw the incapacitated thugs, and relished in the look of horror Anderson aimed at him as he smirked.

Maybe he'll think twice when he tries to mess with me or Sherlock, the slimy git.

Their stay at the hospital wasn't the best of times, to be frankly honest. Three hours after the two were patched up, Sherlock's doctor said that he would have to be under surveillance for a couple of hours before he can be released. Of course, this was met with barbed insults and complaints from the bed-ridden consulting detective, but his doctor (which he considered to be a numbskull) stayed adamant to his decision.

And then they were both paid a visit by Mycroft. As always, he tutted and expressed his concerns ("Really, little brother, what will Mummy say when she finds out?" "Don't you dare tell Mummy, or else I'll tell her what you did to her expensive china!" "How threatening of you, brother dear." "Piss off.") to his brother, which was blocked snidely. John, too tired to argue with the two brothers, got up from his chair and went out of the room without a word. He had went to the hospital's cafeteria and bought himself a cup of badly brewed coffee - but it would have to do, he reminded himself.

After Mycroft and his lackeys left, it took another six hours before John and Sherlock were permitted to leave the hospital. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't require a crutch since his knee was only swollen and not fractured (thank God). With no taxi in sight at 3:20AM, they both decided to walk home instead. The entire half-hour walk from St. Bart's to Baker Street was spent in a stony silence - Sherlock glancing at John with a worried and curious glance every now and then, and John staring resolutely ahead of him - his face devoid of any emotion save for his clenched fists which signified that he was not in a particularly good mood.

By the time they arrived at 221B, the silence between them was palpable, it almost made Sherlock choke. Almost.

And now, to face reality.

"John," started Sherlock uneasily, his voice surprisingly steady.

The only response he received was the tightening of John's hold on the counter, his breathing becoming even more laboured. Everything else was deathly silent and still in that moment, as if waiting with bated breath for the final bomb to drop. Sherlock, starting to feel worried once again, decided to go in a different path.

"Thank you for saving my life today," he said softly, his voice small for some apparent reason.

This seemed to do the trick because John's hold on the counter loosened considerably as he exhaled a deep breath and slowly drank his tea - right hand completely steady. It was several minutes, when the doctor have finished his drink, that he turned around to look at Sherlock for the first time in several hours. His brown eyes, once warm and inviting, now became cold and terrifying. It sent unpleasant chills down Sherlock's spine as he took an involuntary step back at the intensity of his best friend's stare.

"Sherlock..." he started, his tone devoid of any emotion save for the slight tremor. He stopped for a while, as if trying to gather his thoughts before starting again in a stronger voice. "Sherlock, would you mind explaining to me what happened earlier?" It took all of the ex-army doctor's self-control not to start screaming and throwing things at his idiotic flatmate.

Flinching inwardly, Sherlock opened his mouth to explain. He hated feeling this vulnerable, this powerless - because it made him more... human. But then again, he thought as an afterthought, this is John. I trust John with my whole life. As long as it's him that I can act all human-y, then it's all fine. Because it's John.

"I was on a case," he began then. "Lestrade called when I was at St. Bart's and said that he had a case for me. I won't go into details because it's too dull. So to make the story short, I caught the suspect - who happened to be a group of thugs. I followed them into Battersea Power Station, where they were meeting up to count the money they earned upon selling drugs. But unfortunately, I was not too discreet as one of them caught sight of me and the rest of them ran after me. I texted you when I was able to hide in an abandoned office, but they soon caught me. I tried to fight them off, but you clearly saw how humongous they were. I was taken back to their meeting place - the room where you found me in - where they started to beat me up. They stopped when they heard a noise - probably you - and exited through a secret door. Then you found me, and the rest is history." He finished with a lame shrug of the shoulders, feeling too tired all of a sudden.

John was silent all throughout, and Sherlock just looked at him - anywhere of him but his cold, hard eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me beforehand?" asked John, his voice deflated.

Sherlock looked up and was shocked (he'll only admit it to himself) to see his friend appear weak and defeated all of a sudden. The coldness in his eyes vanished completely and was replaced by fatigue and... hurt? Yes, the consulting detective mused to himself, it's definitely hurt.

"I didn't think that I would require any assistance, considering how easy the case was," admitted Sherlock, shifting his foot as he looked at the ground like a child being reprimanded for playing in the mud.

John scoffed, then. "Yeah, and look where _that_ ended up? Three broken ribs, a mild concussion _and_ several cuts and bruises!" His voiced raised by the end of the sentence and Sherlock couldn't help but wince slightly.

"I'm sorry, John," he uttered sincerely, staring into John's misty brown eyes. _Wait... misty?_ "I promise I won't do it again."

John laughed humourlessly as he brought his hands to his hips and then retorted:

"You _promise_? Come on, Sherlock, who are we kidding? When was the last time you made a promise and kept it? It's not enough."

"What are you talking about?" the raven-haired man inquired confusedly, feeling fear creep into his bruised chest.

The shorter man closed his eyes as he sighed heavily before opening them again and meeting the blue-grey eyes of his companion.

"You have no idea..." he said but broke off when he felt his voice hitch. He cleared his throat and then tried again. "When I found you in that position, Sherlock, I thought... I thought _you were dead_. You have no idea just how terrified you made me feel in that moment when I saw you - lying flat on your stomach, motionless and barely breathing. Fighting off those thugs to keep you safe - it killed me to see you that... that weak and, and helpless. And when one of them managed to cut your arm with a hunter knife... white-hot fury filled my entire being. I _couldn't_... I just..."

By this point, John was heaving deeply as he forced himself to not cry in front of his flatmate. It was several minutes before he got control over his emotions when he opened his mouth to speak again. But this time in an all-too calm tone.

"I knew what I was signing up for the night I shot that cabbie for you," he continued. "Through every bloody thing we've been through, I put up with you. Every single one of your crazy idiosyncrasies, I put up with it. And, and - this is what I get in return? I saved your life time and time again, Sherlock - and I will continue to do it, even if it's the last I'll do - but I... I just can't... do this anymore."

Swallowing with difficulty, Sherlock managed to choke out, "I don't... I don't understand, John."

And in that one fleeting moment, when John looked up to meet Sherlock's pleading eyes, he felt his heart clench in pain - a pain so profound that he felt his chest was going to combust from the plethora of emotions he was experiencing. He couldn't say it, but he must. Not that he wanted to, but because he had to.

"I need more than this," the Doctor had murmured weakly.

"Need more than what?" asked the Consulting Detective. He was on the brink of desperation now, and he would do whatever it takes to keep his best friend. "Anything, John. I'll give you anything."

Shaking his head sadly, John continued in a firmer tone, eyes transfixed on the taller man's.

"I need more than post-it notes and Cluedo and dangerous cases, Sherlock. I need to know that what you... that what we have between us isn't just some kind of experiment to pass the time whenever you're bored. I need a permanent place in your life; not just your blogger or your doctor or your babysitter. Because one day, Sherlock, one day I wouldn't be there to save you - no matter how hard I fight and sacrifice just to keep you alive - there will be a day that I will fail. And I can't... do this, whatever it is that I've been doing for the past year... I can't live with myself knowing that I have you by my side, but never really having you at all."

Everything was quiet before John emotionally uttered the words that will either make or break the foundations of their friendship.

"You mean _so much to me_ , Sherlock. But I don't think I can stand to come home one day, and find out that you're gone."

With that said, John turned his back on him and left through the kitchen door, his footsteps quiet and measured as he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.

And for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was at an utter loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had so much fun writing this particular chapter. Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

He heard the door slam shut upstairs in John's bedroom, and the quiet and even footsteps that followed. Sherlock stood rooted in the same spot for several minutes before he allowed himself to move. But during that time he stood there, he thought back on the events that transpired the day before. He knew it was stupid and reckless of it, and the consulting detective is starting to regret his rash decisions. He even started to feel annoyed at himself for... for feeling this way. It's John. It's because of him that he has started to feel, to doubt, to... to care. But at the same time, Sherlock couldn't blame his flatmate - because if it weren't for John, Sherlock would've died months ago. If he were a cat, he knew without a doubt that his nine lives would've ran out completely. And if it weren't for John, he wouldn't be standing in their living room in 221B Baker Street - alive and healing.

Sherlock's brilliant mind swirled with thoughts overlapping each other as he made a move to grab his ruined shirt, when all of a sudden he spotted something from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw an orange rectangle-shaped post-it note attached to the mirror. Standing upright, he walked towards it to remove and read it.

**Your turn to order Thai tonight. I ordered last week. :p John**

Sherlock felt a tug at his heart as he saw the smiley his flatmate used. His lips twitched as he found himself not minding the usage of it again. He looked up and glanced, and was surprised to see another post-it (pink circle-shaped) attached to the skull. He went and retrieved it again to read the message encoded.

**Does this annoy you now? I hope it doesn't. I'm having fun. John**

This time, Sherlock let a smile grace his lips as he read the two notes. But that soon turned into a frown once he remembered of their current situation. The consulting detective sighed and shook his head, turning around to go to the loo to brush his teeth and clean his face and arms. He completely forgot to get his ruined shirt as he made a bee-line to the loo before he was halted in his steps again - seeing another post-it note (blue square-shaped) attached to the test-tube rack on the kitchen table.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Sherlock detached it from the dusty tube before reading the content.

**If you've read this, you must be on the way to the bathroom. :) John**

Letting out a chuckle, Sherlock shook his head and went to the bathroom. Upon entering, he wasn't surprised to see a post-it attached to the mirror - but it was the fact that there were three white skull-shaped notes attached that surprised him. He swiftly moved towards the sink and read each note before detaching it.

**I like that you don't consider this non-verbal communication dull at all.**

**I like that you come out of your own way to make me toast and tea every morning.**

Sherlock's smile widened at the second note, and when he read the last, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in shock.

**And I like how until now, you never cease to amaze me with your beautiful, brilliant mind.**

Twenty minutes later, a clean Sherlock finally entered his bedroom. He unzipped his dirty pants and boxers and threw it aimlessly into the hamper. He went to his drawers and pulled out his favourite striped blue pyjamas and grey loose-fitting shirt and a new change of boxers. He checked his reflection in the mirror of his dresser and grimaced slightly once he saw his reflection. He turned around then to climb into his cold, unkempt bed when he finally spotted the post-it notes.

Sherlock was kneeling on his bed when he saw it - attached to the headboard of his bed and alarm clock on his bedside table. He adjusted his position so he was sitting cross-legged, facing the headboard with a confused and wondering expression.

"Now why would John be posting notes in my bedroom?" he asked himself out loud. But since it was a rhetorical question, he didn't answer that.

He moved forward a bit and switched on his bedside lamp before reaching out to detach one of the two white skull-shaped notes.

**Hoping that I'm not the only one who feels that something has changed between us.**

His breath hitched in his throat, and he gently caressed the paper with his right thumb, his once cold heart softening and warming up. He looked up after a long while and retrieved the last note from his alarm clock, his fingers trembling slightly for some unknown reason.

**Sherlock, without a doubt in mind, you're the most important person in my life right now. John**

Molly Hooper's words rang loud and echoing in his ears just then.

_"Tell him you care about him before it's too late."_

And in that moment, Sherlock Holmes now knew what he must do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

Four hours later, John groggily woke up to his alarm clock. It almost slipped his mind that he had work today, and cursed the heavens above for having an uneasy sleep. He slowly set about his usual routine every morning. Make the bed, go downstairs, eat breakfast whilst reading the morning paper, brush his teeth before taking a shower, and get ready for work. But out of all of this, there was not a single post-it note from Sherlock. He scoffed and reprimanded himself for even thinking that, as he was still quite mad at the consulting detective. He had noticed right at once when he entered the kitchen that the post-its he attached from the day before had already vanished, and knew that his flatmate had read it.

It didn't bother him when he didn't see any post-its from Sherlock to him when he woke up. It didn't bother him when there was no boiled water and toast prepared for him when he went down from his bedroom. And it most certainly didn't bother him when he didn't leave any note for Sherlock. But of course, he'd have to be a coward to say that. John Hamish Watson is many a thing, but never is he a coward.

He was already dressed and ready to leave for the clinic when he found himself perched on a stool in the kitchen, black ink pen in hand and a red rectangle-shaped post-it placed on top of the message table. He was just about to write a quick note when he stopped himself last-minute. He fought against himself ( _To write or not to write? That is the bloody question, he thought to himself in agitation._ ) as his eyes darted from Sherlock's closed bedroom door to the paper and pen in his hand a couple of times. He started to chew on his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed, and mind swirling with aimless thoughts.

A few long minutes later, he came to a decision. He breathed deeply and exhaled loudly and slowly, shaking his head before finally clicking his ink pen closed and inserting the post-it inside his jeans pocket. He stood from the stool and grabbed his coat that was draped in his armchair and exited the room through the kitchen door. But before he did so, he stopped at the threshold and cast a long, sad glance towards the room of his best friend, who was most likely still asleep. He shook his head once again and reminded himself why he was punishing Sherlock like this.

 _It's for his own good_ , he thought.

He secretly admits that he's hurt, and that he's hurting deeply. But his stubbornness and decision to make Sherlock suffer seemed a better idea than forgiving him easily. And as John went down the seventeen steps and exited through the front door of 221B, he couldn't help but be despondent over the fact that he had broken the one routine he swore that he'll never break.

Later in the afternoon, Sherlock woke up from an uneasy but much-needed sleep. He yawned and carefully sat up in bed, mindful of his healing ribs and still swollen knee. He checked his alarm clock and was surprised to read the time: 12:30pm. His stomach growled in hunger, and he groaned slightly at his sudden physical needs. He swung his legs off the bed and slowly stood up, ready to face the day once more.

The consulting detective went out of his room and was greeted by silence. His eyebrows furrowed when he didn't see or hear John, and suddenly remembered that he had work at the clinic today. He made a bee-line to the kitchen to prepare himself some toast and a nice cup of black coffee. As he was chewing on his toast, a sudden thought struck him. He started to look around the kitchen and living room, but eventually came out empty-handed.

Sherlock stood, feet bare and half-eaten toast in hand, in the middle of the room - a forlorn expression on his face as he realised that John hadn't left him a single post-it note.

 _He can't be that mad at me, can he?_ he asked himself.

But before he could dismiss the question with a slight shake of the head, his subconscious interjected with, _Of course he can. You were a downright arse yesterday._

He sighed heavily before his phone rang, signalling a new text message. He ran towards the kitchen to retrieve his phone from the table, immediately sliding his finger across the screen, and hoping against hope that it was John who texted him.

Sadly, it wasn't. Instead, it was from Lestrade.

**We have a new case. Woman found beheaded in her parents' house, but parents are nowhere in sight. Text back ASAP. - Lestrade**

Scowling, Sherlock texted back at once.

**Dull. And I'm busy. Don't disturb unless Anderson has magically transformed into a woman. - SH**

The reply was instantaneous.

**You're such an arse. What happened? John finally kicked you in the balls? - Lestrade**

If possible, Sherlock scowled deeper as he can imagine the DI's mocking tone. Gritting his teeth, he replied for the last time.

**Obviously not, but I'm sure you know how that feels. Now - piss off. - SH**

He waited for a minute, and when he was sure that the DI wouldn't text him for the next couple of weeks (he could deduce that much), he placed his phone inside the pocket of his blue robe and threw the rest of his toast in the trash after drinking the rest of his now warm coffee.

Sherlock's plan to get back into John's good side is to clean the entire flat. Of course, this coming from the consulting detective is a shocker. Though, he had half of his life ordering maids to clean this and that, or get this and that - adulthood changed him. In a way. Somehow.

Removing his robe and draping it over the coat rack, Sherlock cracked his knuckles and set about to work. He remembered one of the post-its John wrote to him (I like that you come out of your own way to make me toast and tea every morning) and also what Molly said about John ( _"... you have to know that John would sacrifice everything for you. Even if it's his happiness he's sacrificing."_ ), and figured that if he cleaned the whole flat and bought his best friend dinner, then John will forgive him with a wide, boyish smile that seemed to light up the room and make Sherlock's heart skip a beat or two.

There's no denying it now, the detective knew he'd let himself fall for his flatmate, but he wouldn't say he regretted it because it was better than any drug he'd ever taken in his life.

 _Love_ , he thought, _is what I never expected to feel. Least of all to my best friend._

He hadn't considered himself capable of falling in love before, having been single all his life - but that didn't mean he was a virgin. Oh, he experimented a lot during University and the years before he began working as a Consulting Detective - but it was just that. An experiment. Nothing more, nothing less.

But somehow, the ex-army doctor had slowly wormed his way into Sherlock's supposed calloused heart. John had unconsciously wormed his way in there and - piece by piece - broke down the barriers and walls and locks that Sherlock had built around himself. And before he knew it - he was feeling all human-y. He went to his Mind Palace as he vacuumed the living room and kitchen, searching for when and how it all began. He retraced the steps and eventually came to a stop, his movements stopping as well.

It all started the day John left his very first post-it. He remember being on a case the night before, and had fallen asleep at an awkward position on the couch. John had work at the clinic that time, so he left the yellow post-it on top of Sherlock's phone. He could still recall the message as if he had just read it yesterday:

**Sherlock, there's breakfast on the table in case you're hungry. Don't blow up the flat, please. John**

Gaping slightly, Sherlock relished in the fact that it had been nearly half a year since that day. It marked the beginning of what was already between them - growing gradually as the months passed of them communicating non-verbally like hearing-impaired individuals. But as always, both chose to ignore the huge elephant in the room. Rather, they both turned a blind eye on the situation and settled to living their not-so-peaceful lives as is.

And Sherlock immediately saw his mistake. He had ignored - no, scratch that - his brilliant and sometimes idiotic mind ignored the subtle changes that had been happening for the past couple of months. He himself had ignored his subtle changes over the past couple of months.

Turning off the vacuum as it started to suck in the decaying body of a dead cockroach near the kitchen door, Sherlock cursed himself under his breath. Taking deep breaths then to clear his muddled mind, he set about to dusting the appliances and furniture. He cleaned his chemistry equipments and kept most of it in the bare cupboards. He forced himself to throw the severed feet and thumbs as he cleaned the almost empty fridge for almost an hour.

Afterwards, he washed the dishes and cleaned the pantry before going to the living room to fix the mess on the coffee table and bookshelves. Then, he separated the curtains to welcome in the afternoon heat of the sun, letting a small smile grace his still beaten-up features as he noticed how lighter and cleaner the room appeared.

Next, he grabbed the gloves and equipments needed for cleaning the bathroom under the sink. He spent close to two hours cleaning the bathtub, toilet bowl and sink before he jumped in the shower to take a quick bath. Due to his injuries, his movements were a little slower, and he carefully removed the bandages wrapped around his torso and knee. After twenty-minutes, he exited the bathroom wet and stark-naked (he's not a very conservative man behind closed doors) went inside his bedroom to change into his trousers and a navy blue button-up shirt. Begrudgingly, he cleaned his room as well - changing his bed sheets before dumping the dirty sheets in the hamper.

When he went out of his room fifteen minutes later, Sherlock went out through the kitchen door and up the stairs to John's bedroom. It was five-thirty in the afternoon, and John won't be home for another hour. Now, he has been inside the ex-army doctor's room a dozen times, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel a tiny ounce of guilt for trespassing in his best friend's room. He checked to see if there was anything he could do to clean or tidy things up a bit, but was unsurprised (and slightly disappointed, too) that John's room was as tidy and immaculate as ever.

The bed was made and the entire room was almost bare - save for the bedside table and closet and desk. But other than that, it was next to nothing. Sherlock was just about to exit the room when he spotted something from the corner of his eye. Turning around slowly, he noticed a small wooden box under John's bed. It wasn't completely hidden, per se, but it looked like it was hastily placed in there.

Curious and inquisitive as ever, Sherlock crept slowly back inside and kneeled carefully before reaching out a long, pale hand to take out the box from its hiding place. It was a simple mahogany box, give or take a couple of years old according to his keen deductions, and was quite pleased to see that it had no lock. Whatever John had kept in here must not be that important, then, if it had no lock and was poorly hidden. Smiling crookedly and a tad mischievously, Sherlock opened the box to take a peek, and was completely rendered speechless at what he saw.

The contents were not pictures of his family members or friends from Afghanistan, or even remembrances from his childhood - but it was all the post-it notes that Sherlock had written to John. Every single one of them; hidden and kept safely as if it's the most valued possession the ex-army doctor has ever owned. And the thought of John - simple, caring, anything but ordinary John - doing something he had considered pedestrian and dull and so human, had undoubtedly hit a nerve in Sherlock.

With trembling hands, he carefully set down the wooden box, his vision becoming blurry all of a sudden. He shut his eyes tightly to stop the tears from escaping, but unfortunately one managed to, and it slowly cascaded down Sherlock's pale cheek before landing on the dusty hard wood floor.

He breathed in and out to get a hold of his emotions, and when he was certain enough that he won't be shedding any more tears, he slowly opened them and stared down at the contents again. Finally, he let a smile grace his face as he caressed the box almost lovingly, before he spotted a lone post-it attached to the lid of the box. Eyebrows slightly furrowed, he lifted the box again to read the message encoded in John's neat handwriting.

**In case you're reading this (which I'm sure you are, knowing you), I hope you've deduced what this all means.**

Finally closing the box and placing it back in the exact spot he found it in, Sherlock straightened himself up before exiting the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. His brain started to work in overdrive as he immediately visited his Mind Palace - easily separating everything containing John and transferring it into a bigger room.

It didn't take a genius like Sherlock to understand the implication of John's message, though. And as he went down the seventeen steps to go grocery shopping in Tesco and buy some take-out at their favourite Thai restaurant, the consulting detective started to plot on how he can approach the situation verbally this time.

John had a very busy day at the clinic. He had more than twenty patients, and almost half of them were suffering from the flu that's been going around London due to the bipolar weather. He clocked out at six o'clock and awkwardly said farewell to his colleague and ex-girlfriend Sarah before going out of the small clinic, the collar of his coat turned up. He decided to walk home then, considering how things are still a bit not good between him and Sherlock. He kind of thanked God that he was busy at work today, because if he wasn't then his thoughts would often be wandering towards the dark-haired detective. He still felt bad about not leaving a post-it for him, but found that it was the necessary thing to do.

He thought about Mrs. Hudson and how he could pop in to her flat for a couple of minutes for tea, when he suddenly remembered that their landlady went to Cardiff to visit a friend of hers. She wouldn't be back for another two days, sadly. Sighing, John zipped up his coat and placed his hands inside his coat pockets as he continued to walk in a languid pace. It would take him another half hour to reach Baker Street, anyway. He might as well enjoy the walk.

By the time the doctor opened the door and stepped into the threshold of 221B, he was greeted with silence. This shouldn't surprise him, but knowing his flatmate, Sherlock should at least be doing something. Like playing his violin or watching crap telly, or even conducting some silly experiment in the kitchen. But not... this. Not silence.

He carefully walked up the stairs, and was greeted with closed doors. Furrowing his eyebrows, John slowly opened the living room door and was gob smacked at what he saw.

"What the bloody hell..." he muttered, gaping open-mouthed and wide-eyed as he felt his body go limp at the sight in front him.

To him, it looked like someone had unleashed the Tasmanian Devil and wiped the entire apartment... clean. He stepped into the threshold and surveyed his surroundings, still at an utter loss of words. The living room alone was orderly and clean, the books in Sherlock's bookshelves arranged neatly, and the coffee table devoid of any clutter. He observed the hard wood floors and was very impressed to see it dust and dirt-free. Someone must have vacuumed it then, as well as the carpet in the living room as it looked cleaner, somehow. He stepped into the kitchen and almost screamed in shock. The kitchen was almost completely bare. There were no chemistry equipments on the kitchen table, save for the fruit bowl placed at the centre - but with no fruits, sadly. The counter was clean and spotless, as well as the pantry.

The sink was also clean and slightly damp, considering that someone had the decency to wash the dishes. John then walked towards the fridge and opened it - before slamming it shut once again - like the first time he saw a severed head. He closed his eyes and counted one to ten before opening them and the fridge, slowly this time. He blinked several times, staring quite dumbly at the extremely clean and extremely bare - save for the bottles of water, eggs, and a lonely carrot - fridge.

He checked the contents, finding no severed human limbs in sight. He closed the door, then, and proceeded to check out the rest of the area. He opened the cupboards and was both relieved and surprised to see the recently cleaned equipments placed properly. After inspecting the kitchen, he went inside to pee in the bathroom, but was prepared this time to see just how neat it was. He even felt slightly guilty for peeing in the white, pristine toilet - he was that shocked, for lack of a better word, at the skill of whoever Sherlock hired to clean.

Just as he flushed the toilet and washed his hands at the sparkling sink, he heard someone go up the stairs and open the kitchen door. Thinking that it was his flatmate, he took his time drying his hands at the towel in the rail before going out of the loo. But once he stepped into the kitchen, he was taken off-guard once again that he actually took a step back in shock. Sherlock - brilliant, extraordinary, high-functioning sociopath (or so he claims to be) Sherlock - was carrying grocery bags from Tesco and a take-out bag from their favourite Thai restaurant.

He stood, gaping open-mouthed like a gold fish once again, as he stared up and down at his flatmate like he had grown an extra pair of limbs.

"Ah, John, hello," greeted Sherlock, smiling brightly when he saw his flatmate.

The consulting detective placed the bags of groceries on the counter as carefully as he could before placing the plastic bag containing their dinner on the table. He started to bring out the groceries and placing it in its rightful place, moving to the pantry to put two loaves of bread and their favourite kind of Jammie Dodgers. Then, he proceeded to the other bag and took out two cartons of milk and placed it inside the fridge. John just stood rooted to his spot, following the taller man with only his eyes. The doctor then observed how agile but a tad slower Sherlock was in his actions, and remembered that his best friend is still injured. Mentally slapping himself, he finally moved from his spot and made to help him with the groceries. But Sherlock apparently didn't want him to as he stopped him with a hand on the shorter man's wrist.

"It's fine, I've got it," he said reassuringly, casting an oddly comforting smile at the doctor. "Would you mind setting the table so we can eat our dinner after I put everything away?"

All John could do was nod his head before he turned around to take out the containers of their Thai food. He grabbed two dry plates from the dish rack and cutlery from the first drawer. When he was finished setting the table, he moved to the opposite side and sat himself down, content on just observing Sherlock move about the place. His lips quirked up a bit when he realised that Sherlock bought his favourite kinds of tea (Twining's' peppermint, jasmine, lemon, and green tea), and a large jar of Nescafe Gold for Sherlock. He also realised that their previously bare fridge now became almost full as he watched Sherlock place the tomatoes, cucumbers, broccoli, and carrots in the vegetable bin; a carton of eggs, butter, cheese, and cookies went in the fridge well; and the frozen products of beef, fish, and chicken into the freezer.

In short, Sherlock went into an all-out grocery shopping-spree, and John couldn't decide whether to be proud or suspicious. When the detective finally placed the jars of strawberry, raspberry, and blueberry jam in the cupboard, he removed his coat and scarf, hanging it on the coat rack before sitting down on the chair opposite John.

"You went grocery shopping," stated John as they began to eat their dinner. He couldn't resist any longer, he wanted to break the ice between them - no matter how upset and hurt he still is.

Sherlock looked up from the stir-fried noodles he was eating and, instead of replying in his usual sarcastic drawl, he nodded his head in affirmation - eyes oddly bright. Or maybe it's because of the light, thought John.

"Yes, I did," replied Sherlock, sounding extremely proud of himself as he smiled wide at his flatmate. "And I also cleaned the entire flat, which I'm sure you've noticed."

John choked on his shanghai rolls as he looked up at Sherlock through teary eyes, coughing loudly before he drank the bottle of water given to him.

"Are you alright?" asked Sherlock, an unmistakable hint of worry tinged at his tone.

John nodded as he breathed deeply, his mind still processing over the other man's words.

"I'm sorry - _you cleaned the entire flat_?" he asked instead, his eyebrows raised high as he regarded Sherlock with an astonished stare.

Flushing slightly at the look he was being given, Sherlock nodded slightly and looked down at his plate, feeling himself go stiff all of a sudden. He knew that it was a shock for John to find out that he cleaned - more so that he can clean - but he couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of hurt over the fact that the doctor looked, and sounded, disbelieving of his capability to do such a plebeian task such as cleaning and grocery shopping.

John, noticing how stiff Sherlock had become, immediately felt bad and berated himself for acting like a total dick just then. He brushed off that thought as he leaned forward in his seat slightly, a calm and reassuring look on his face.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely this time. "I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock."

When his flatmate remained silent and unmoving, the doctor forced himself not to growl and instead settled on exhaling heavily and trying again.

"All I'm saying is that I... _appreciate_ you doing this. Cleaning and grocery shopping - I know it's not really your area, and you consider it such dull tasks - but I, uh... I appreciate it. So... thank you, Sherlock." He finished off slightly awkwardly, his face turning a slight shade of pink as he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, eyes downcast.

Sherlock's posture changed instantly and he looked up from his plate, his face softening when he met John's earnest and slightly-guarded eyes. He offered a half smile and muttered "You're quite welcome" before they resumed eating in a still awkward, but somehow bearable silence. The only sound that was made came from their cutlery and their chewing - and also the occasional cough or clearing of the throat when one deemed it necessary to do it in order to clear the tension between them.

"How are your injuries?" John asked suddenly as he took a sip from his water bottle. "Does it still hurt or do you need painkillers?"

 _Always the caring doctor_ , Sherlock thought fondly as he shook his head slightly.

"I still feel sore, but I'm better now," he replied, his baritone voice sending pleasant chills down John's spine.

Silence greeted them once again, and it was so evident that both still chose to ignore the ever-growing proverbial elephant in the room. But they both decided that it wasn't the right time to speak up yet.

John thought that this wasn't the evening he was expecting; as he imagined beforehand coming home to a messy flat - drinking tea and eating toast for dinner whilst completely ignoring Sherlock who continued to sulk on the couch, before going up the stairs to his room without a single word. He clearly didn't expect to come home to a remarkably clean and tidy flat, a fully-stocked kitchen and Thai take-out for dinner. He figured that it was Sherlock's way of apologising, but soon dismissed the thought. He knew that Sherlock knew that he'll forgive him, but it wasn't that what John wanted from Sherlock. It was much more than that, and he hoped that his flatmate knew it, too.

 _What am I to you, Sherlock?_ he said to himself as he took a bite of his stir-fried noodles.

As for Sherlock, he didn't expect the evening to turn out like this. He had imagined beforehand coming home to the clean and tidy flat, John shocked and delighted to see him and his efforts - and the doctor finally telling Sherlock that he forgave him, and that all was well. But, none of that happened at all. Instead, he spent fifteen minutes being observed rather closely by the ex-army doctor as he put away the groceries to its rightful place, and then eating dinner in a tense but bearable silence.

The consulting detective immediately deduced his flatmate while they ate, and came to the conclusion that although John is very pleased with his efforts and knew his intentions behind it - it wasn't what the doctor was expecting. Sherlock knew that John knew he knew it wasn't an apology the latter wanted. It was much more than that. More than words, more than a clean flat and fully-stocked fridge. And John was right, he realised - the doctor didn't deserve the treatment he was getting from Sherlock.

He deserves more than post-it notes, and Cluedo, and dangerous cases. He deserves... he deserves Sherlock.

 _But how the bloody hell do I voice this out?_ he screamed frantically in his mind. _Oh, dull humans. How you deal with situations like these must be utterly frustrating._

But it's John. And John is the most important person that has ever happened to him. Doing these tedious and pedestrian chores for and because of John didn't seem to mind Sherlock at all. And he doesn't mind, because he will never mind - as long as it's John.

He looked up from his plate to look at his flatmate, and was slightly surprised but secretly pleased when he saw the doctor looking at him as well - an unreadable expression written on his face. The thing with John is that - no matter how well Sherlock can deduce about him, or already knows about him - he can never be able to read John's expressions. And it both frustrated and fascinated him. A puzzle he has solved, but not completely solved at all. And Sherlock figured that he wouldn't mind not completely solving John at all - because he knew that he would never get enough of discovering new quirks about the brown-eyed man.

"John," he began in a soft voice.

They didn't break eye contact, and the detective saw something flash in the doctor's eyes. Expectation? Curiosity?

"Yeah, Sherlock?" answered John, voice just as soft.

The curly-haired man hesitated for a while, unsure on how to proceed as he didn't really think beforehand of what he wanted to say. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before he made up his mind in the end, opting to say what he deemed important to say at the moment.

"I'm sorry. About what happened yesterday, I... it was stupid of me, I know that now. And I should have informed you beforehand, but I... I'm just sorry, John. I really, really am."

There, he'd finally said it. But as he continued to look into John's eyes, he noticed the slight disappointment in those warm brown orbs, and how his shoulders slumped a little at what he said.

Nevertheless, John let a soft smile grace his features as he stared intently into Sherlock's blue-grey eyes. He shouldn't have expected, but he had hoped that Sherlock would say something other than an apology. But the doctor appreciated it, nonetheless. So instead of feeling bad for himself, he rejoiced in the fact that at least his best friend has learned his lesson.

He nodded his head once at him, indicating that he accepted what Sherlock said.

"I know, Sherlock," he replied understandingly, his smile becoming wider. "And it's fine, you know that. It's all... fine."

Returning his smile with a genuine one of his own, Sherlock felt his heart flutter at the way John's eyes brightened when he smiled back at him. And he felt right there and then, that things are going to be alright.

They may not be on the best of terms right now, but they're slowly getting there. And as long as they take slow and gradual steps, they'll eventually get to where they are both supposed to be. And that is with each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, we come out of our way to make the people we care about happy. As for John, he does it in his own way to show Sherlock that he cares through non-verbal communication. And the thing is, Sherlock is starting to reciprocate. What can happen from here?

Weeks passed by in a slow, agonizing pace for both John and Sherlock. Neither had left post-it notes to each other since the day John saved Sherlock's life at Battersea Power Station, and both secretly admitted to themselves that they missed doing the one and only routine they unwillingly broke. They both fell back in to their regular, non-posting-its routine, and both disliked it very much. John more so, as he was the one to start it in the first place. Sherlock, on the other hand, still hadn't gotten the courage to speak up.

There were times, in between cases, that it seemed like the perfect time to tell John, but Fate somehow didn't want him to. He became agitated to the point that he punched Anderson's oily face when the mediocre forensics officer insulted John and his "poor taste in flatmates", clearly rendering everyone shocked at his display of violence. But Lestrade didn't even shout or chastise him for it - quite the opposite, in fact, as he casually broke the silence with:

" _Finally_ , I've been itching to do that for five years now."

And let's just say that Anderson didn't report to work for the next month, much to Sherlock's glee and John's amusement.

Now, it had been two months since The Last Post-It, as John glumly called it, and he was almost at his wits' end with the tension he and Sherlock had between them since that night. And there was only one thing in the way of John's plan to finally come clean to Sherlock, and it was the ugly thought that:

_"What if Sherlock rejects me, and I read all the signs incorrectly?"_

But what the doctor didn't expect at all was for the consulting detective himself to take matters into his own hands.

It was a gloomy morning in March when John woke up to the sound of his alarm clock, signaling that it was already six o'clock. It was his day off that day, so he decided to sleep for another couple of hours, enjoying the comfort of his bed and the warmth of his pillows and blanket. The next time he woke up, he could hear the rain pelting down the windows of his room. He sat up and yawned, feeling himself smile at the thought of a cuddle weather, and immediately cast that thought aside when the image of Sherlock cuddling with him on the couch appeared in his mind.

 _Now's not the time to be fantasising about your best friend_ , he chided himself gently. Shaking his head, he turned to the side to read the time and he was taken aback by two things.

One: it was ten o'clock and he hasn't woken up at that time in months; and

Two: there was a white skull-shaped post-it attached on top of his alarm clock.

Feeling his jaw drop open at the piece of paper, he blinked several times and shook his head hard, making sure that what he was seeing wasn't a hallucination at all. After staring at it unblinkingly for several minutes, John slowly reached a hand out to detach the paper from its spot, and read the message encoded.

**I know I'm two months delayed, but - good morning. There's tea and toast prepared when you get down. :) Sherlock**

John was torn between being shocked at the fact that Sherlock had written him a post-it for the first time in so long, or the fact that he just used a _smiley_. Feeling his heart beat erratically against his chest, the ex-army doctor got up from bed - not bothering to make his bed or change his clothes. Instead, he grabbed his robe that was draped over the chair beside his desk and put it on, placing the post-it inside one of its pockets before going out of his room, feet bare and hair completely messy - standing at different angles.

Sherlock mentally patted his back when he heard John's footsteps going down the stairs. He had posted the note minutes before the doctor roused from his sleep, hoping that the doctor would find it something to smile about - especially the fact that he let himself use that blasted smiley. But it was a sacrifice he was willing to make, of course. He was sitting on his arm chair, still in his pyjamas sans the robe, and started to pretend to read the newspaper a moment before John walked into the room via the kitchen door. He observed from his peripheral vision that the doctor turned to look at him, a soft smile dancing on his lips before turning around to sit and eat his breakfast.

"Good morning, Sherlock," said John by way of greeting as he sat down on the chair in front of the table.

Expecting Sherlock to not reply at all (as he usually does every single time), John was unprepared for his flatmate's response.

As for Sherlock, he looked up from the dull article he was staring at when John greeted him, and felt his breath hitch at the sight before him. He stared, mouth slightly open, at John wearing nothing but striped boxers and a white v-neck shirt, completely donned by that god-awful robe that made him look like that bloke from a movie they watched out of boredom - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Sherlock recalled. His eyes moved up and felt himself swallow when he saw the state of John's hair.

Bed hair, Sherlock mused to himself, surprised that he sounded in awe. Well, maybe was - is in awe. I like John with bed hair, it makes him look... ruggedly handsome.

His eyes widened before slapping himself mentally when that thought crossed his mind. Clearing his thoughts, he shook his head slightly and replied.

"Good morning, John. I trust you slept well?" he asked as casually as he can, even managing to put on a smile on his face.

John looked up and at him in surprise from the toast he was eating (it was smeared in strawberry jam, one of his favourites), and nodded with a boyish smile that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat.

"Yes, yes, I did," replied John through a mouthful of bread. He swallowed and took a sip of his peppermint tea before adding, "Thank you for this again, Sherlock. You really shouldn't have."

 _Wow. That was a first,_ thought John.

He had never said that before, except for when he wrote it in a post-it. But that was different. And he figured that this seemed... better, somehow. He noticed that Sherlock appeared surprised as well, but noted that the detective was also pleased. He smiled a bit wider at that.

"You're welcome," said Sherlock a tad shyly as he slowly rolled up the newspaper before placing it on top of the coffee table. "I don't mind, really."

"Oh. Well, uh... I appreciate it," stammered John slightly, feeling a blush escape his cheeks.

Sherlock just nodded and John resumed to eating the rest of his breakfast. There was a long, but comfortable (this time) silence as John washed the dishes, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and answer the call of nature.

When he went out and made to go to the living room to watch some telly, he noticed that Sherlock was using his laptop. Rolling his eyes as if in exasperation, he let it slide this time and instead, just shrugged and sat down in the middle of the couch, remote in hand. He propped up his feet on the coffee table as he switched on the telly, immediately changing the channel to BBC News. The two men were silent for at least another hour, John completely engrossed in what he was watching, and Sherlock worrying his bottom lip every now and then. Finally, sighing heavily, he closed John's laptop and stood up - walking over the coffee table (for what could possibly be the umpteenth time) and marched towards his bedroom.

John observed all this through narrowed eyes - curious and a little bit worried on what has gotten into his friend. He had noticed for the past several weeks that Sherlock had appeared on edge lately. He somehow felt more agitated than before, but always calming down every time he saw, or even looked, at John. Come to think of it, the only time Sherlock wasn't yelling or pouting or just being a downright pain in the arse, was when John was around. And that happens to be most of the time, too.

He heard Sherlock's footsteps coming back, and John immediately focused his gaze and attention on the telly, completely missing the apprehensive expression that passed over Sherlock's face for a brief moment. So the ex-army doctor was taken completely off-guard when the consulting detective blocked his path and placed an old photo album on top of his lap. Perplexed, John sat upright on the couch as Sherlock moved to sit on the coffee table in front of him, hands clasped together as he rested his elbows on his knees, regarding John with an all-knowing look.

"Sherlock... what's this?" John said slowly, saying the first thing that came to his mind.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock sighed and said, "It's a photo album, John. Obviously. Open it."

"But why should I? Sherlock, what's all this about?" asked John, face scrunched up in utter bewilderment.

If Sherlock didn't harbour any romantic feelings towards John, then he would have snapped at him. But since he harboured said romantic feelings for his best friend, he let it slide and just sighed in exasperation instead.

"You'll see," he said, sounding a tad mysterious then. With a gentle nudge and nod of the head, he smiled obliquely and added, "Now go on - open it."

Aiming one last look at the man seated in front of him, John looked down at the old photo album. He considered it old as there were tea stains at the corner, and the black leather - although, it looked extremely expensive, no doubt - was already quite worn out. It was thick and hardbound, and noticed that the pages were starting to yellow, but John thought that in his eyes - it was perfect. His eyes wandered to the silver thread embroidered in the middle of the cover, and it read:

**S.H.**

Huh, who would've thought that Sherlock owned a photo album? thought John as his lips quirked up in a half-smile. He momentarily glanced up at his best friend, only to see him looking at John patiently - an odd yet profound look in his eyes. He glanced down again at the photo album in his hands and, with a final breath, lifted the cover to see the first pictures of the curly-haired man.

 _Maybe I'd get to see a baby Sherlock wearing diapers_ , he added to himself with a slight snigger.

But that snigger quickly died in his throat once he saw what was inside.

It was not pictures that he saw, but notes. Post-it notes - from John, to be precise. He felt his jaw drop open for the second time that day as his eyes scanned over each note he had written and left for his best friend to find and read. Page after page after page after page, it was filled with John's post-its. He even gasped when he noticed that Sherlock had it arranged by date and in order of which he found and read first. Five months worth of post-it notes that came from different colours and shapes filled the entire photo album.

He smiled at a note he randomly wrote to Sherlock ( **You should compose music more often. John** ), blushed at another ( **Is your hair naturally curly, or do you take the time to curl it yourself? Just curious. John** ), felt his eyes tear up when he read something that seemed so long ago ( **I don't think I'll ever get tired of doing this 'thing' of ours. :) John** ), and felt his heart skip a beat at the bold message he remembered writing that fateful day ( **Sherlock, without a doubt in mind, you're the most important person in my life right now. John** ).

And when he looked up through teary eyes, he saw Sherlock still looking at him in that odd, insightful way. He gestured with a slight nod to keep reading, still. Slightly mystified, John looked down at the photo album again, noticing that he was on the last page - having read his final post-it to Sherlock. But then, he noticed a new post-it attached to the inside of the cover, and gently took it out with slightly shaking fingers. It was a red rectangle-shaped post-it and he carefully read the dedication written.

**Now that you're reading this, I hope you've deduced what this all means.**

He sucked in a breath as realisation dawned on him - a tear managing to escape and roll down his cheek, he looked up at Sherlock with wide eyes, noticing that the latter was smiling widely at him - a knowing expression on his face this time.

"So you've read... mine," he stated, no longer needing to ask it since he knew Sherlock would have found and read it. "Took you long enough." He added lightheartedly when Sherlock nodded.

"But... but why... what..." his voice trailed off, thoughts going off-kilter as he wiped another tear away before looking up at Sherlock once more - eyes pleading for an explanation.

"My grandmother gave it to me," began Sherlock, gesturing his hand to the worn-out photo album in John's hands. "She was so fond of taking pictures of every living and non-living object that her house became a walk-in art gallery. She was awful at photography, mind you, but she found immense joy in it, so we let her be. Then on my fifteenth birthday, she gave this to me and made me promise her to take pictures of the people that I care about, the moments that I want to remember - and put it here, in this album." Sherlock stopped, swallowing inaudibly. When he appeared to have gathered his thoughts once again, he slowly looked up and met John's curious, warm brown eyes. "This is the only possession I own which I am very proud to have. But I failed to keep that promise for twenty years, John; and I constantly live in guilt and regret over it. That is, until now."

"What do you-" started John, but shut his mouth at once when Sherlock placed a warm, shaking hand on top of his calloused ones. Feeling his heartbeat accelerate at the contact, he looked down from their joined hands and up to Sherlock's promising and anxious eyes.

"You told me, two months ago, that you needed more than what you're getting. You told me that you needed to know where you stand in my life - that what has grown between us isn't an experiment I am conducting every time I'm bored. And after months of constantly visiting my Mind Palace, I'm finally going to give you the answer you deserve to know."

John waited with bated breath as a brief silence settled, with Sherlock breathing a little heavily but his hold on the doctor's hand tightening slightly. It was a short while later when he opened his mouth to speak again.

"John, you deserve nothing but the best. And I have to be perfectly honest with you that I'm not fully capable of fulfilling that part." John's face crumpled, and before he could react further, Sherlock continued forcefully. "But you have to know - you need to know - that where you stand in my life is where no one else has ever been placed. You have put up with all of my idiosyncrasies, and that has made me respect and admire you more. You are everything but an experiment, John. What I'm trying... what I've been meaning to tell you, is that I'm willing and ready to go out of my way and sacrifice my own happiness for you."

"Sherlock," said John softly, his lips barely moving as he slowly lifted his free hand to gently caress the other man's cheek. "Just being you makes me happy already. It's enough - you're enough."

Leaning into the touch with a serene smile, Sherlock quietly muttered, "You mean so much to me, John. I know that I'm not the easiest man to live and be with, but I promise to do my best to show you that I love you - in my own way."

A wide grin broke out of John's face, his eyes shining with happiness as he muttered back endearingly, "And I'll show you that I love you, too."

And Sherlock grinned back at him, emotions running rampant in his blue-grey eyes - the most expressive John has ever witnessed him be.

They didn't kiss just yet, nor did they break their intense eye contact. Now that they have finally come clean to each other, it felt like every puzzle piece has finally clicked into place. The silence that ensued was comfortable, both men content in just staring into each other's eyes - understanding clearly that the connection they share goes beyond words and actions.

"Speaking of which," John broke the silence suddenly. Sherlock blinked once and tilted his head to the side questioningly. "You missed to read one post-it."

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow as John stood up from the couch and went to the mantelpiece, lifting the skull and taking out a dusty, white skull-shaped post-it from inside. Sherlock looked astonished for a while before he stood up from the coffee table and walked towards John, stopping right in front of him. John gave him the note, and when Sherlock read the message, his face broke out into another wide grin.

**Out of all the things you've done, there is one I should thank you - and it's for becoming my one miracle.**

"Turn it over," said John mischievously, hands clasped behind his back.

Sherlock stared at him with a slightly bemused look, but did as he was told. And what he read made his stomach do somersaults.

**By the way, Detective - I love you. And I always will.**

Instead of replying verbally, Sherlock walked towards the kitchen and removed something from under the table. When he turned around to face John, he was holding a white skull-shaped post-it. Eyebrows raised in amusement, John chuckled as his best friend (and now lover? Partner? Significant other?) handed him the note to read.

**Obviously. And I love you, too, Doctor.**

Gawking slightly, John looked up and before he could get a single word out, Sherlock's luscious, warm lips came crashing down on his. He gasped and then moaned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin waist and holding him close. The detective's arms wrapped around the doctor's shoulders, hands at the back of his head and fingers doing wonders with John's hair and neck. It wasn't the perfect, fireworks-in-the-distance kind of kiss. But relatively, it was spontaneous and spur-of-the-moment - and they wouldn't have it any other way.

It's true that the simple things in life hold the most meaningful messages - for what started out as a small, harmless way to show that they care for each other, turned out to be the beginning of what was already growing between them.

And suffice to say, John and Sherlock are exactly right where they're both supposed to be - in each other's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think by commenting below! :)


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